Dancing Jax. Robin Jarvis

saw Sandra Dixon back there before,” he said, nodding towards the boot fair.

      “She was lucky we thumped her,” Emma declared proudly. “She might be lying on a slab right now with the rest if we hadn’t. I told the police that last night. Not that they took any notice. She should be bloody grateful.”

      “She isn’t the sort to go to a flash mob,” he answered.

      “Don’t go sticking up for her! She’s so far up herself you don’t have to. And she deserved what we done. You know she said you was thick and couldn’t read a book without colouring it in. Snobby cow.”

      Conor managed a grim smile. “She’s right there,” he agreed.

      An elderly couple had been admiring the sea as they walked along the promenade. Drawing close, they paused when they saw the two young people and let out sympathetic groans.

      “Oh, you poor lad,” the woman cried. “Your bruised face. Were you caught up in that terrible disaster?”

      “Awful business,” the man added consolingly.

      Conor didn’t know how to answer them, but Emma said, “Bog off, you nosy coffin-dodgers! Go find someone else to patronise or I’ll squeeze your colostomy bags so hard your false teeth will shoot out!”

      The couple backed hastily away from the hostile, hard-bitten girl and walked off as quickly as they could. Conor exploded with shocked laughter. She really was relentlessly foul.

      Emma watched them leave with a snarl on her lip. Then she reflected it might have been a mistake wearing tracksuit bottoms. Conor bore signs of battle; perhaps it was time she displayed her wounds too. She had a feeling she would need all the sympathy she could get, especially if that Sandra was going to make a stink. She had been looking forward to at least a week off school, but now she thought it would be smarter to make an appearance tomorrow, with her poor bandaged legs on show.

      “Have we done here?” she asked the boy.

      Conor didn’t think there was anything more to be said.

      “So you’ll not tell anyone, yeah?”

      He felt conflicted. “Not today,” was all he could promise.

      “Just keep that gob buttoned,” she warned. With that, she strode away.

      Conor chewed his bottom lip. He didn’t know what to do. A brazen seagull alighted on the wall and took a stalking step towards him, hoping for something to eat. Another landed beside it and came bullying forward.

      “I haven’t got nothing!” the lad said, showing his empty hands. One of the gulls pecked greedily at his fingers and he pulled his hand back.

      “Vicious little beggar!” he cried. “Bet your name’s Emma as well.”

      He swung his legs around and jumped off the wall, into the boot fair.

      The laden tables sported the usual tat: old toasters, garish souvenirs brought back from abroad, boxes of broken jewellery, rusty tools, redundant VHS tapes, typewriters, ugly clocks, unfashionable shoes, chipped vases, bent candlesticks, incomplete jigsaws, cracked crockery, vinyl recordings of cover-version compilations, empty picture frames. There was nothing here the red or blue teams of Bargain Hunt could take to an auction and make a profit on.

      Conor moved through the crowd, only vaguely noticing what was on sale – until he came to a beaten-up camper van where a young woman was standing behind a wallpaper table covered in a display of old books. The same old book, with a green and cream cover.

      With Emma’s spiteful account of what Sandra Dixon had said about him still in his mind, the boy stopped and picked one up.

      “Dancing Jacks,” he read.

      The woman behind the table regarded him oddly, shooting him warning looks. Almost as if she was telling him not to look at it, never mind buy it.

      Ignoring her, he flicked through some of the pages. The black and white illustrations looked archaic to him and the thought that they really did need colouring in suddenly popped into his head.

      “Ha!” he blurted. “You don’t want that,” the woman muttered. “What’s it about?”

      “You won’t like it.”

      “How much?”

      “You’d be wasting your…”

      Her voice was cut off as a movement sounded from within the van and a lean-faced man emerged from the sliding door.

      “Peasant coins are all we seek!” he said with a crooked grin. “Just thirty of your shiny new pennies.”

      “Thirty pence? Is that all?”

      The man bowed. “For this day only,” he said. “Next week they shall be ten pounds each and after that… who knows, a hundred – a thousand, maybe more?”

      Conor almost laughed at him, but something about the man’s manner commanded more respect than that. Then he noticed that the scuffed leather jacket he was wearing had been added to and was now sporting two long tails, like an old-fashioned fancy dinner jacket. There was an illustration of a character wearing something like that in the book. In fact, it even looked a bit like that weaselly man.

      Conor handed the money over and walked away with the book under his arm.

      The man’s eyes gleamed. Then he turned to the woman and took her hand to kiss it.

      “You must endeavour to be more persuasive in your vending, my fair Labella,” he told her.

      Shiela nodded slowly. “Yes, Ismus,” she said in a fearful voice.

       Chapter 10

      Protecting the Ismus, night and day, keeping vigilant watch upon his Holy person are his devoted bodyguards: the three Black Face Dames. No dainty damsels they, but brawny bruisers in black skirts and iron-studded boots, with midnight ribbons tied about their knees and arms. Soot bedaubs their cheeks and brows, for they have renounced their true names and their stomping dance is the deadliest of all. Seek not to gambol with them, only the Jockey has e’er frolicked and jigged in their midst and lived to laugh. Beware their Morris, beware Old Oss’s poisoned bite and Scorch’s fiery tongue.